Ilse Witch

16

Bek Rowe froze as the huge apparition swung away from the fleeing wolves to face them. Quentin took an involuntary step back, his earlier euphoria over the rediscovered magic of the Sword of Leah forgotten. Neither dared even to breathe as the thing before them rippled like windblown cedar limbs, a kind of shimmering movement that suggested an image cast on a rain-drenched window or a ghost imagined in a sudden change of light.

Then the tattered cloak that wrapped Truls Rohk’s broad, rangy form billowed once and settled about his shoulders, the edges trailing stray threads and ragged strips of cloth. Hands and feet moved like clubs within the circle of darkness he cast, but no face could be seen within the shadows of his cowl. If not for his vaguely human form, Truls Rohk could as easily have been a beast of the sort that prowled those mountains.

“Panax,” he hissed. “Why are you here?”

He spoke the Dwarf’s name with recognition, but without warmth or pleasure. His voice bore the sharp whine of metal scraping metal, and ended with the sound of steam released under pressure. Bek had forgotten the Dwarf. Battle-ax lowered to his side, Panax stood straight and unbowed in the presence of the dark creature that confronted them. But there was a tenseness in his rough features and wariness in his eyes.

“Walker has sent you a message,” he said to the apparition.

Truls Rohk made no move to come forward. “Walker,” he repeated.

“These are Highlanders,” Panax continued. “The tall one is Quentin Leah. The younger is his cousin, Bek Rowe. They were entrusted to carry the message to you.”

“Speak it,” Truls Rohk said to the cousins.

Bek looked at Quentin, who nodded. Bek cleared his throat. “We’ve been asked to tell you that Walker is preparing to undertake a journey by airship across the Blue Divide. He goes in search of a safehold in an unknown land. The safehold contains a treasure of great value. He says to tell you that others search for it, as well, one of them a warlock called the Morgawr and one a sorceress called the Ilse Witch.”

“Hsssshh! Dark souls!” Truls Rohk spat sharply, the sound so venomous it stopped Bek right in the middle of his speech. “What else, boy?”

Bek swallowed thickly. “He says to tell you that his enemies have already killed the Elf King, Allardon Elessedil, and a castaway who carried back a map of the safehold. He says to tell you he needs you to come with him to help in the search and to protect against those who would prevent it.”

There was a long silence, then a cough that might have been a laugh or something less pleasant. “Lies. Even with only one arm, Walker can protect himself. What does he really need?”

Bek stared at the other in confusion and fear, then glanced at both Quentin and Panax, found no help, and shook his head. “I don’t know. That was all he told us. That was the whole message, just as he gave it to us. He wants you to—”

“He wants more than he says!” The raspy voice grated and hissed. “You, Highlander.” He gestured vaguely within his cloak toward Quentin. “What magic do you wield?”

Quentin did not hesitate. “An old magic, just this night recovered. This sword belongs to my family. It was given its magic, I’m told, in the time of Allanon.”

“You wield it poorly.” The words were cutting and dismissive. “You, boy.” Truls Rohk spoke once more to Bek. “Have you magic as well?”

Bek shook his head. “No, none.”

He was aware that Truls Rohk was studying him carefully, and in the stillness that followed, it seemed as if something reached out and touched him, brushing against his forehead with feathery lightness. It was there and gone so quickly that he might only have imagined it.

Truls Rohk moved a step to his right, and the movement revealed a flash of arm and leg of huge proportions, all muscle and thick hair, bare to the mountain night. Bek had a strong sense that the other was stooped within his cloak, affecting a kind of guarded crouch, a readiness that never left him. As big as Truls Rohk already seemed, Bek believed he would be much bigger still if he was to stand upright. Nothing got that big that wasn’t a Rock Troll, but Truls Rohk lacked a Rock Troll’s thick hide and cumbersome, deliberate movements. He was too quick and fluid for that, and his skin was human.

“The Druid sent you to be tested,” he growled softly. “Tested against your own fears and superstitions. Your magic and your grit are untried weapons.” He gave a low chuckle that died away into the familiar hiss. “Panax, are you party to this game?”

The Dwarf grunted irritably. “I play no games with anyone. I was asked to see these Highlanders into the Wolfsktaag and out again. You seem to know more about this than I do.”

“Games within games,” the shadowy form murmured, stalking a few steps to the right, then turning back again. This time Bek caught a glimpse of a face within the hood, just a momentary illumination by the edges of the firelight. The face was crisscrossed with deep, scarlet welts, and the flesh looked as if it had been melted like iron in a furnace. “Druid games,” Truls Rohk went on, disappearing again into shadow. “I do not like them, Panax. But Walker is always interesting to watch.” He paused. “Maybe these two, as well, hmmm?”

Panax seemed confused and said nothing. Truls Rohk pointed at Quentin. “Those wolves would have had you if not for me. Better practice your sword’s magic if you expect to stay alive for very long.”

Bek felt the other’s eyes shift and settle on him. “And you, boy, had better not trust anyone. Not until you learn to see things better than you do now.”

Bek was conscious that both Quentin and Panax were looking at him, as well. He wanted to ask Truls Rohk what he was talking about but cowed by the giant’s size and dark mystery, he was afraid to question him.

Truls Rohk spat and wheeled away. “Where do you go to meet Walker?” he called over his shoulder.

“Arborlon,” Bek answered at once.

“Then I’ll see you there.” His words were soft and whispery. “Now get out of these mountains, quickly!”

There was a rush of wind, cold and sharp, and a whisper of movement in the night. Bek and Quentin shrank involuntarily from both, shielding their eyes. Behind them, the fire flickered and went out.

When they looked back toward the silent darkness, Truls Rohk was gone.

Far south, below the Highlands of Leah, the Prekkendorran Heights, and the older, more industrialized cities, Wayford and Sterne, in the Federation capital city of Arishaig, Minister of Defense Sen Dunsidan was awakened by a touch on his shoulder.

His eyes blinked open and he stared through the gloom toward the ceiling without seeing anything, uncertain what had disturbed him. He was lying on his back, his big frame sprawled on the oversize bed, the sleeping room cool and silent.

“Wake up, Minister,” the Ilse Witch whispered.

His eyes settled on her slender, cloaked form as she bent over him. “Dark Lady of my dreams,” he greeted with a sleepy smile.

“Don’t say anything more, Minister,” she advised, stepping back from him. “Rise and come with me.”

She watched him do as he was told, his strong face calm and settled, as if it were not at all unexpected that she should appear to him like this. He was a powerful man, and the effective exercise of his power relied in part on never seeming surprised or afraid. He had been Minister of Defense of the Federation for better than fifteen years, and he had achieved his longevity in that position in part by burying a lot of men who misjudged him. He seemed mild and even detached at times, just an observer on the edges of the action, just a man eager to make things right for everyone. In truth, he had the instincts and morals of a snake. In a world of predators and prey, he preferred to take his chances as the former. But he understood clearly and unequivocally that his survival depended on keeping his preference secret and his ambitions concealed. When he felt threatened, as perhaps he did now, he always smiled. But the smile, of course, hid the teeth behind.

The Ilse Witch led him wordlessly from his sleeping chamber down the hall to his study. His study was his place of business, and he would understand from her taking him there that there was business to be done. He was a man of huge appetites, and he was accustomed to satisfying them when he chose. She did not want him mistaking her purpose in coming to his bedchamber for something other than what it was. She had seen the way he looked at her, and she did not care for what she saw in his eyes. If he were to attempt to put his hands on her, she would have to kill him. She did not mind doing so, but it would accomplish nothing. The best way to prevent that from happening was to make it clear from the outset that their relationship was not about to change.

Sen Dunsidan was both her spy and her ally, a man well placed in the Federation hierarchy to do favors for her in exchange for favors she might do for him. As Minister of Defense, he understood the uses of power in government, but he was mindful, too, of the need for cautious selection. He was clever, patient, and thorough, and his work ethic was legendary. Once he set his mind to something, he did not give up. But it was his ambition that attracted the Ilse Witch. Sen Dunsidan was not satisfied with being Minister of Defense. He would not be satisfied if he were to become Minister of War or Minister of State or even if he were chosen Prime Minister. He might not be satisfied with being King, a position that didn’t even exist in the current structure of the Federation government, but it was closer to the mark. What he desired was absolute power—over everything and everyone. She had learned early on in their relationship that if she could show him ways of achieving this, he would willingly do whatever she asked.

They reached his study and entered. The room was wood paneled and austere, an intimidating lair. Disdaining the brighter light that the torches set in wall brackets would have afforded, the minister moved to light a series of candles on a broad-topped desk. Tall and athletic, his silvery hair worn long and flowing freely, he moved from place to place unhurriedly. He was an attractive man with a magnetic personality until you got to know him, and then he was just someone else to be watched carefully. The Ilse Witch had encountered more than her share of these. Sometimes it seemed the world was full of them.

“Now, then,” he said, seating himself comfortably on one end of a long couch, taking time to adjust his dressing gown.

She stayed somewhat removed from him, still wrapped in her hooded cloak, her face hidden in shadows. He had seen what she looked like on several occasions, mostly because it was necessary to let him do so, but she had been careful never to encourage his obvious interest in her. She did not treat him as she did her spies, because he considered himself an equal and his pride and ambition would not allow for anything less. She could reduce him to servitude easily enough, but then his usefulness would be ended. She must let him remain strong or he could not survive in the arena of Federation politics.

“Did those airships I sent you not do what was needed?” He pressed, his brow furrowing slightly.

“They did what they could,” she said in a neutral tone of voice. She chose her words carefully. “But my adversary is clever and strong. He is not easily surprised, and he was not surprised there. He escaped.”

“Unfortunate.”

“A momentary setback. I will find him again, and when I do, I will destroy him. In the meantime, I require your help.”

“In finding him or destroying him?”

“Neither. In pursuing him. He has the use of an airship, with a Captain and a crew. I will need the same if I am to catch up to him.”

Sen Dunsidan studied her thoughtfully. Already he was working it through, she could tell. He had determined quickly that there was more to this than she was telling him. If she was chasing someone, there had to be a reason. He knew her well enough to know she would not waste time hunting someone down simply to kill him. Something else was involved, something of importance to her. He was trying to figure out what might be in it for him.

She decided not to play games. “Let me tell you a little about my interest in this matter,” she offered. “It goes well beyond my determination to see my adversary destroyed. We compete for the same prize, Minister. It is a prize of great and rare value. It would benefit both of us, you and I, if I were to gain possession of it first. My request to you for aid in this endeavor presupposes that whatever success I enjoy, I intend to share with you.”

The big man nodded. “As you have always so graciously done, Dark Lady.” He smiled. “What sort of prize is it you seek?”

She hesitated deliberately, as if debating whether to tell him. He must be made to think it was a difficult decision, the result of which would favor him. “A form of magic,” she confided finally. “A very special magic. If I was to gain possession of this magic, I would become much more powerful than I am. And if I was to share possession with you, you would become strongest among those who seek power within the Federation government.” She paused. “Would you like that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, laughing softly. “Such power might be too much for a simple man like me.” He paused. “Do I have your assurance that I will share in the use of this magic on your return?”

“My complete and unequivocal assurance, Minister.”

He bowed slightly in acknowledgment. “I could ask for nothing more.” She had convinced him a long time ago that she would keep her word once she gave it. She also knew that his confidence was buttressed by his belief that even if she broke it, her betrayal would not cost him much.

“Where do you go to seek this magic?” he asked.

She gave him a long, careful look. “Across the Blue Divide, to a new land, an old city, a strange place. Only a few others have gone there. None have returned.”

She did not mention the castaway or the Elves. There was no reason for him to know of them. She gave him just enough to keep him interested.

“None have returned,” he repeated slowly. “Not very reassuring. Will you succeed where everyone else has failed?”

“What do you think, Minister?”

He laughed softly. “I think you are young for such machinations and intrigue. Do you never think of taking time for more casual pleasures? Do you never wish that you could put aside your obligations, just for a few days, and do something you never imagined?”

She sighed wearily. He was being obtuse. He was refusing to accept that his advances were not welcome. She must put a stop to it now before it got out of hand. “If I were to consider such a thing,” she purred, “do you know a place to which I might escape?”

His gaze on her was steady and watchful. “I do.”

“And would you be my guide and companion?”

He straightened expectantly. “I would be honored.”

“No, Minister, you would simply be dead, probably before the first day was out.” She paused to let him absorb the impact of her words. “Put aside your dreams of what you think I might be. Do not let them enter your mind or be persuaded to speak of them again. Ever. I am nothing of what you imagine and less of what you would hope. I am blacker than your worst deeds could ever be. Don’t presume to know me. Keep far away from me, and maybe you’ll stay alive.”

His face had stilled, and there was uncertainty in his eyes. She let him wrestle with it a moment, then whispered words of calming in the silence, and laughed like a girl, soft and low. “Come now, Minister. Harsh words are unnecessary. We are old friends. We are allies. What of my request? Will you aid me?”

“Of course,” he answered swiftly. A political animal first and always, Sen Dunsidan could recognize reality quicker than most. He did not want to anger or alienate her or sever their mutually advantageous connection. He would attempt to move past his clumsy attempt at an assignation as if it had never happened. She, of course, would let him. “A ship, a Captain, and crew,” he assured her, grateful for a chance to accommodate, to be back in her good graces. He brushed at his silver hair and smiled. “All at your disposal, Dark Lady, for as long as you need them.”

“Your best of each, Minister,” she warned. “No weak links. This voyage will not be easy.”

He rose, walked to the study window, and looked out over the city. His home sat in a cluster of Federation government buildings, some residences, some offices, all warded by a walled park into which no one was admitted without invitation. The Ilse Witch smiled. Except for her, of course. She could go anywhere she wished.

“I’ll give you Black Moclips,” Sen Dunsidan announced suddenly. “She is the best of our warships, a Rover-built ship of the line, a proven vessel. Her history is remarkable. She has fought in over two hundred engagements and never been defeated or even disabled. Just now, she has a new Captain and crew, and they are eager to prove themselves. Veterans all, don’t misunderstand me, but new to this ship. They were brought aboard when her Rover crew deserted.”

She studied him. “They are seasoned and reliable? They are tested in battle?”

“Two full years on the Prekkendorran, all of them. They are a strong and dependable unit, well led and thoroughly trained.”

And a full complement of Federation soldiers, she was about to say when the Morgawr’s rough-edged voice stopped her. No soldiers, he hissed, so that only she could hear. It was an unmistakable reminder of his earlier warning, when she had insisted she must have soldiers to combat the Elven forces. A ship, a Captain, and a crew—nothing more. Do not question me. She froze under the lash of his voice, projected from the shadows behind Sen Dunsidan, where he waited in hiding.

“Lady?” the Minister of Defense asked solicitously, sensing the hesitation in her.

“Supplies for a long voyage,” she said, forging ahead as if nothing had intruded on her thinking, looking directly toward the Morgawr, unwilling to concede him anything. She resented his insistence on trying to control matters when he himself had no intention of being involved in the expedition. He saw himself as her mentor, and he was, but she was his equal now and no longer in his thrall. She had always possessed magic, even before he came to her and helped her to rebuild her shattered life. She had never been helpless or unaware, and he seemed too quick to forget how strong she was.

“The ship will be delivered to you fully outfitted and ready to sail.” Sen Dunsidan reclaimed her attention. “I’ll have her ready in a week.”

“Four days,” the Ilse Witch said softly, holding his gaze firmly with her own. “I’ll come for her myself. Have her Captain and crew under orders to obey me in everything. Everything, Minister. There are to be no questions, no arguments, and no hesitations. All decisions are to be mine.”

The Federation Minister nodded without enthusiasm. “The Captain and crew will be advised, Dark Lady.”

“Go back to bed,” she ordered, and turned away, dismissing him.

Standing with her gaze directed out the windows and into the night, she waited until he was gone, then wheeled back to face the Morgawr, who had emerged from hiding, tall and dark and spectral. He had come with her to the city, but kept hidden while she did the talking. He told her that it was best if Sen Dunsidan believed she was the one he must listen to, the one in control. As in fact I am, she had wanted to reply, but instead held her tongue.

“You did well,” he said, sliding into the faint light.

“I don’t appreciate your interference with my efforts!” she snapped, unappeased. “Or your reminders of what you think I should or shouldn’t do! I am the one who risks life and limb to gain possession of the magic!”

“I only seek to supply help where help is needed,” he replied calmly.

“Then do so!” she snapped. Her patience was exhausted. “We need soldiers! We need hardened warriors! Where are they to come from, if not from the Federation?”

He dismissed her anger and displeasure with a wave of his gloved hand. “From me,” he replied casually. “I have already arranged for it. Three dozen Mwellrets, commanded by Cree Bega. They will be your warriors, your fighters. You will have nothing to fear with them beside you.”

Mwellrets. She cringed at the idea. He knew she hated rets. As fighters, they were savage and relentless, but they were deceivers, as well. She did not trust them. She could not see inside their minds. They resisted her magic and employed subterfuges and artifices of their own. It was why the Morgawr liked them, why he was using them. They would be effective fighters in her behalf, but they would act as her keepers, as well. Giving her Mwellrets was a means of keeping her in line.

She could refuse his offer, she knew. But to do so would demonstrate weakness. Besides, the warlock would simply insist that she do as he asked, having already made up his mind that the rets were necessary—

She caught herself in midthought, realizing suddenly what sending the rets really meant. It wasn’t just that the Morgawr no longer trusted her or that he was no longer certain she would do as he ordered.

He was afraid of her.

She smiled, as if deciding she was pleased with his suggestion, careful to keep her true feelings veiled. “You are right, of course,” she agreed. “What better fighters could we find? Who would dare to challenge a ret?”

Only me, she thought darkly. But by the time you discover that, Morgawr, it will already be too late for you.